


Ashes of Life

by Heavyheadedgal



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Bring tissues, Depression, Gen, Infertility, Miscarriage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavyheadedgal/pseuds/Heavyheadedgal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the common woman is as common<br/>as good bread<br/>as common as when you couldnt go on<br/>but did.</p><p>--Judy Grahn, "Vera, from my childhood," <em>The Work of a Common Woman</em></p><p>Phryne Fisher is a heroine; Rosie Sanderson is an ordinary woman. This is her story, after the events of "Unnatural Habits." (2x12) The title is taken from the poem of the same name by Edna St. Vincent Millay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 1929

_Life isn’t one thing after another; it’s the same damn thing over and over again._ Edna St. Vincent Millay

Rosie Sanderson felt haunted. She had a persistent sense that time, instead of moving forward in an orderly manner, was repeating itself in an endless circle. She sat in her sister’s kitchen with a pile of mending and tea things on the table. They had sat like this together as girls, while their mother taught them needlework.  She had used those lessons to keep Jack’s constable uniform in perfect condition.  Later, she had earned her keep in the eyes of her brother-in-law by being useful with her sewing skills. And here she was again, basket, needle, thread, thimble. For a terrifying moment, she wasn’t entirely certain that Sydney had ever happened at all.

Rosie had hated mending, when she was a wife. But at the moment she could hardly face anything else. She missed her garden with a fierceness usually reserved for a lover, or a home. She hadn’t had a garden of her own for nearly four years. So mending would have to do. And three growing boys in the house meant a never-ending supply of items to repair.

 Iris hung up the telephone in the hall and sat down heavily. Rosie put down her needle and thread and poured them both another cup of tea. “How’s your stomach?” she asked.  Iris’ unexpected pregnancy, 10 years after her last baby, meant they were drinking peppermint; black tea turned on her when she was in the family way.

“Not that bad, today. I can’t quite believe I’m going through all this again,” she murmured.

“I thought you didn’t want another baby, after Timothy.”

“Yes, well.” Iris picked up her wool and knitting needles. “It was our trip back to Adelaide in June.”

“Oh, your honeymoon...” Rosie nodded with understanding.

“Harold was overcome with nostalgia.” Iris rolled her eyes. “Silly old fool. Still, maybe this one will be a girl.” Iris had always wanted a daughter, and had three sons instead.

_I always wanted to have boys_ , Rosie thought, but didn’t say. Timothy, George, and Harold Jr. were polite to her, but not very interested in their spinster aunt.

“Have you heard from Jack recently?” Iris asked, not looking up from her work.

“No. I told him he didn’t need to check up on me any longer. I can’t continue to take advantage of his kindness. It’s just  ... too much to bear sometimes.”

“He was always thoughtful, wasn’t he?”

Rosie bit her tongue at that statement. She would not be drawn into yet another discussion of Jack’s various qualities. “At least mother can’t scold me any longer about him. She’d have me remarried to Jack tomorrow.” She paused, and then continued quietly, “Thank god she’s not alive to see this mess.”

The steam from the teacups drifted in the afternoon light; the baking smell of Iris’ steak and kidney pie filled the room. Iris was (somewhat optimistically, in Rosie’s opinion) knitting pink bootees. Iris looked like an illustration from Women’s Choice. Her hair, mousey in comparison to Rosie’s rich auburn, was beginning to show threads of silver. She hummed tunelessly as she knitted. Rosie closed her eyes briefly. She mustn’t scream. The point of the darning needle pushed against the pad of her thumb; the sharp prick brought her back in to focus.

For the whole of July she had been unable to get out of bed. She lay there, in her room (which had once been the twins’ nursery), staring at the wall. It was the same room where she had spent the three years of waiting for her divorce. Jack had come to see her, held her hand while she cried quietly, saying nothing. In August, Iris had come and placed the mending basket on her lap. “It’s best to keep your hands busy,” she’d said. She kissed Rosie’s forehead, stroked her hair, and left her to it. Rosie came downstairs and ate at the family dinner table that evening.

Now she spent most of her time patching tears, strengthening seams, darning socks.  It wasn’t comforting. It simply stopped her thinking too much.

“At least a baby is something to look forward to,” Iris said, after moment. “That was Harold on the telephone; they’ve set a court date. It’s a mercy, I suppose, that they’ve both decided to plead guilty. At least there won’t be a trial to endure.” She put down her wool and rubbed her temples.

“Yes,” said Rosie, with a brittle cheerfulness. “Perhaps with luck father will be released from prison in time for the baby’s first birthday!” She giggled, and covered her mouth abruptly. Iris glared at her.  Rosie lowered her hand from her face. “How can you be so bloody serene about it, Iris! You aren’t even upset!”

“Of course I’m upset!” Iris snapped. “I’m appalled. I’m afraid of how this might affect us – Harold’s career at the firm – the boys are already suffering at school. Everyone knows about their crooked grandfather. But there’s no point in hysterics. What’s done is done. I have a house to run.”

_And I don’t._ The thought echoed loudly in the room.

“But you’re not shocked.” Rosie pressed her.

“No, I can’t say that I am. I was never under any illusions about our father. He was always prone to say one thing and do another. You just never wanted see it.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“You know very well you’re father’s favourite. The apple of his eye. Mother and I could never compare.”

Rosie had nothing to say in reply. She drained her teacup too quickly, scalding the roof of her mouth. She winced. “Much good it’s done me, in the end.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, taking advantage of the quiet before the boys returned from school. Rosie stood and brought the tea things to the sink. “I don’t know,” she began, looking out the kitchen window. “... I just don’t know how I could be _so stupid_.”

“Oh my dear, it wasn’t your fault.” Iris said wearily, for what seemed the hundredth time.

Rosie rinsed the cups, emptied the leaves out of the pot. She wiped her hands on a tea towel, and paused, running her fingers over the white circle on her left hand where first her wedding band, then her engagement ring, had protected her skin from the Australian sun. She was scrupulous in wearing gloves and a hat, but she never quite managed to keep her complexion as fair as women like Phryne Fisher did. The price of her passion for roses, she supposed. The only passion she and Jack had shared, by the end.  She had been looking forward to having a garden of her own again, with Sydney. She had even started buying seed packets, sketching plans.

“We just need to get through to Christmas,” Iris said with a sigh. “By next year it will all be over and we can put it behind us. Harold says...”

But Rosie had stopped listening to what Iris was saying Harold said. She folded the towel neatly and placed it on the kitchen counter. She picked up the freshly washed tea cup and threw it against the far wall. She did the same with the remaining cups, then took the teapot in both hands and hurled it at the floor, where it shattered ruthlessly.

Iris rushed over and grabbed her hands before Rosie could open the cupboard and start in on the plates. “Rosemary! Stop it!” she shouted. Rosie closed her eyes and gripped her sister’s hands till her knuckles were white; Iris winced. “Rosie, dear, you’re hurting me.”

“I promised myself, Sissie,” Rosie whispered. Her eyes were bright but she didn’t let herself cry.  “After I left Jack, I promised myself I’d never feel like this again.”

Iris pulled her into an embrace, rubbing her back. “We have to make do, Ro-ro,” she said, using her childhood name for her sister.

Rosie buried her face in Iris’ shoulder. “I can’t.”

“You’ll have to.”

 


	2. January 1913

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief flashback to Jack and Rosie's courtship.

 

_But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd,_

_Than that which withering on the virgin thorn_

_Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness._

William Shakespeare, _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , Act I Scene I

 

“Are you ready?” Jack smiled at her. He had one hand on the small of her back, the other on her hand on the handlebars.

She squinted in the afternoon sun, sceptical. “Promise you won’t let go?”

“Promise.” He said it solemnly, but his eyes looked mischievous.

“Hm. We’ll see, Jack Robinson.” She began to peddle, Jack trotting alongside her. She picked up speed, coasting along the path in the Richmond park where they had once played together as children. She remembered a daisy crown in her hair, the fairy princess menaced by pirates, rescued repeatedly from their depredations by a somewhat shy and gangly Buffalo Bill. She had rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek and laughed to see his ears go pink. It had been their favourite game when they were 10. He was always good natured, never rough or cruel as other boys could be. Then her father was promoted and her family moved to a better part of town. She forgot most of her Richmond playmates – but not him.

Her mother didn’t approve of women cycling. So she had persuaded Jack to teach her here in Richmond, instead taking their usually Sunday stroll after church. Rosie could admit to herself that she was after more than one kind of illicit pleasure. She was generally quick to pick up new skills, but it seemed she was just terrible at cycling and required Jack’s hands on instruction. She had abruptly lost the ability to maintain her balance, and required Jack to keep his large hands on her waist. He wasn’t fooled by her sudden clumsiness for a moment, she could see by his sly grin. He stood closer than strictly necessary, and spoke softly in her ear so she shivered at the sound of his rich baritone.

They had met again, no longer children, at the Fire and Policeman’s Ball the previous year. It was Rosie’s first time attending and she had abandoned her escort shamefully after she literally ran into Jack on the dance floor.

“Rosie Sanderson? The Fairy Princess of Richmond!” His uniform was freshly starched, buttons shining. The navy color brought out the blue of his eyes.

“Well, if it isn’t Buffalo Bill.” She grinned, and felt her heart thump suddenly at the sight of his broad smile. “Father mentioned you were a constable now. I like your buttons!”

She laughed as he blushed at her flirtation. He asked her to dance. From that evening on they were inseparable. He’d grown up tall, still with his easy smile and ready laugh. He courted her with a sweet earnestness that won her heart completely (he had a habit of quoting Shakespeare at precisely the right moment). They went to the foreshore or the cinema together on his days off. Rosie liked to sneak glimpses of their reflection in shop windows, a woman grown on the arm of her beau. Father approved; Jack was intelligent, disciplined, and had good prospects toward advancement in the force. Clever enough to be commissioner, father said. Jack was naturally curious and read widely, attended public lectures on science and politics, and didn’t hesitate to share what he learned with her. Mother didn’t approve of _that_ either. She sat in the corner of the parlor during his chaperoned calls, a stern witness to their conversations. “You’ll have no time for that kind of nonsense if you marry,” Mother sniffed. “A man doesn’t want a scholar for a wife.”

The sun flashed in and out behind the trees and she felt Jack’s hands leave her waist. She laughed giddily as her hair came loose, and called after him, “Keep up, Constable!” The bicycle began to wobble and she careened into a nearby hydrangea bush, falling onto the ground with a shriek. Jack hurried to catch up with her.

“Rosie! Are you hurt?!”

She brushed leaves out of her hair and smiled at his concerned expression. “Help me up,” she demanded, reaching out. He took her hand and yelped as Rosie pulled him down into the bushes with her. He was half on top of her, blushing and flustered, and Rosie kissed him soundly. He sighed quietly as their tongues met and she felt dizzier than she had on the bicycle. Her mother would be furious if she found out. They were certainly making a spectacle of themselves. She didn’t care – they were practically engaged. Jack was up for promotion to Senior Constable and she felt confident he would propose soon after. He was kind, and thoughtful, and he adored her, and she couldn’t wait to be his wife.


	3. April 1930

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie brings one chapter of her life to an end, and meets an unexpected ally.

_Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in its place?_

Virginia Woolf, _A Room of One’s Own_

 

The furrier’s was open early in the day, thankfully. Rosie wanted to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, to avoid encountering anyone she might know. They would either pretend they couldn’t see her, or ask awkward questions. She wasn’t sure which alternative was worse. Rosie had lost count of the number of calls that went unreturned and invitations that were rescinded. She had found to her humiliation that the social circle she had thought of as her friends had, in fact, been Sydney’s friends. Now, of course, they denied all association with him, had hardly known the man, really. It was worse than when she had left Jack. A divorce could be smoothed over, by simply not mentioning it. Now, there were whispers where ever she went.

Shifting the brown bag to her side, Rosie pushed the door open.

The sales clerk was solicitous and only somewhat crestfallen when he learned she was there to sell, not to buy.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to view some of our latest coats madam? We’ve received some lovely fox stoles recently as well.” A thin young man, with slick black hair and a cheap suit, he was exactly the sort of person Sydney had liked to play up to when they went shopping together. Sydney would have had this clerk fetching and scurrying and bestowing compliments. At the time, she had enjoyed being fussed over. It had made a wonderful change from Jack’s silent moods.

“No thank you,” Rosie said firmly. “I just want to inquire as to the price you’d give for this.” She pulled the coat out of the paper bag, laying it on the counter. It was calf-length, softer than silk, black as midnight. Sealskin.

“Oh, madam,” the clerk gasped. “But this is a lovely piece! It’s in perfect condition. Why would you wish to sell it?”

_Because my ex-fiancé bought it with the money he made from selling children_ , thought Rosie.

“I’m afraid I don’t care for sealskin,” she replied. The coat was one of the last remaining items Sidney had given her; she’d sold off the rest of the clothing, jewellery, hats, and trinkets. The money was going to Prudence Stanley’s fund for friendless girls. Anonymously. She wouldn’t have people muttering that she was trying to buy back her good name. It was a beautiful garment, Rosie had to admit. The weight of it was seductive in her hands. She had worn it, once or twice, and received admiring glances from women who pretended not to know her now. It was a perfect symbol for her relationship with Sidney. A beautiful, expensive facade created from blood and cruelty.

The clerk spoke with a manager and a fair price was agreed. The glassy eyes of a mink wrap, head still attached, watched her from over the man’s shoulder. Rosie felt her skin crawl, suddenly aware of the sheer quantity of death surrounding her in this elegant shop. She stuffed the money in her handbag and made a quick exit. Once she was outside she paused to take a deep breath. The ring had been the first item to go, and now, at last, she was rid of the coat. She felt...not lighter, nor freer, as she’d hoped. She felt empty. Hollow. The sun shone too brightly, despite the chill in the air. Everything seemed sharper, more distinct—the cracks in the pavement, the pinch of her shoes, the color of the leaves on the trees. She started to walk slowly, away from the last remnant of Sydney Fletcher in her life.

He had shown up in Melbourne, with his well tailored suits and his charming smile, his sophisticated set of friends. So different from who Jack had been, and the man he’d become. Sydney was fun. He took her dancing, bought her presents, and admired her spirit. _I like a woman who doesn’t settle for less than she deserves_ , he replied, when she explained about the pending divorce. Everything he said took on a horrible double meaning, when she could bring herself to think about it. _I’m in the export business_. He’d been so sympathetic when she confessed she was barren. _I never really cared for children, darling. You’re all I need_. She’d thought it was passion in his voice when he’d murmured _You’re mine_ in her ear when they were in bed together. Now she knew it was possession. She had wanted to believe she could have a fresh start; that she hadn’t ruined her life forever, as mother insisted. She’d thought he was her second chance.

Rosie rounded the corner, and stopped dead in her tracks. There ahead of her was Felicity Preston and her sister, peering through a shop window. The letter dismissing Rosie from the Melbourne Women’s Association charity committee had arrived only yesterday. _Regret that our constitution requires members of the board to be persons of good moral character._ Rosie had always thought Felicity Preston’s signature unnecessarily elaborate. She would have to pass them on her way and could not bear the thought of it. She obeyed a panicked impulse and ducked into the doorway of a nearby cafe.

Rosie stood in the entrance and breathed deeply, feeling tears pricking her eyes. _You silly fool_ , she berated herself. _You’re a grown woman, not a blubbing schoolgirl hiding from bullies_. She couldn’t just stand here in the entryway like some misplaced piece of furniture. She would sit, away from the window, have a cup of tea and try to calm herself.

Unfortunately, as Rosie looked around, every table in tiny tea shop was occupied. She glanced out the door and saw the Prestons moving toward the cafe. She was trapped. Then she noticed Harry Harper’s widow Celia, sitting with a mutual acquaintance, and an empty chair between them. She sighed in relief and recognition, and began to walk toward them. Celia glanced up, and Rosie started to greet her. Celia looked Rosie dead in the eye, quickly looked down, and turned away from her, shifting her chair.

Rosie found herself standing in the middle of the room, open mouthed. The hum of conversation grew louder, while the color leached from her surroundings.

“Miss Sanderson? Miss Sanderson?” A low voice floated up through the buzzing in her ears.

“....Rosie?”

Rosie flinched as someone touched her right shoulder, and found Phryne Fisher standing next to her, looking at her with concern.

_Oh god._ That woman.

“Rosie, are you unwell? Please, sit with me.”

“--No—yes—that is, I—thank you, Miss Fisher,” she stammered. The last thing she needed was to take tea with Phryne Fisher. Rosie despaired at her own stupidity.

She sat next to Miss Fisher at a small round table in the corner. Miss Fisher flagged down a waitress and ordered more tea; her own cup and saucer showed she had been in the cafe for some time.

“Please, Miss Fisher, that isn’t necessary—“

“I absolutely insist,” said Miss Fisher, sounding rather like her aunt, Mrs. Stanley, Rosie thought. Perhaps there was some resemblance between aunt and niece after all. “You look pale,” Miss Fisher continued, “and please, do call me Phryne.”

Rosie found her ability to maintain her manners had deserted her completely.

“Why?” The word flew out of her mouth before she could even register it. Well, there was no point in politeness now. “We’re hardly what you’d call friends. And we didn’t part on the best of terms the last time we met.”

“And I regret that.” said Miss Fisher quietly. “I don’t wish to be enemies. Can’t we at least be cordial to each other?”

Rosie looked at Miss Fisher, at her pearl earrings and spotless kid gloves, her sophisticated hairstyle and ruby lipstick. Rosie thought about the money in her handbag. She thought about the room waiting for her in her sister’s house, the only place she had to go back to. She slowly brought her teacup to her mouth and was relieved her hand didn’t tremble.

She placed her cup in the saucer and took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. “I thought you had left the country? I saw something about it in the papers.”

“Yes.” Miss Fisher answered. She studied Rosie a moment before continuing, “My father ...became rather entangled in some unpleasant business here in Melbourne, and required my assistance in returning to England.” She paused, sipping her tea thoughtfully, then continued. “Well, to be perfectly frank, I insisted on removing him from Australia as quickly as possible. You see, Miss Sanderson, I understand what it’s like to be disappointed by one’s father. ”

“Why are you doing this?” Rosie asked quietly.

“Because I hate to see a strong-minded woman torn down by petty, sanctimonious gossips. Because a man tried to destroy my life once too, and I know what it is to start over all alone. And you look like you need a friend.”

Rosie didn’t know what to say, or what to think. She stared at Phryne Fisher and suddenly wanted nothing more than to put her head on this woman’s shoulder and sob her heart out. How did Miss Fisher manage to inspire such responsiveness in a near stranger? Rosie wasn’t even sure she liked the woman. She was brash, and loud, and rather vulgar with her fast car and feathered boas (or so mother would have said). Sydney had called her notorious, and passed on every lurid tale he heard about her. Father had shaken his head at her interference in Jack’s career, the effect she had on his reputation.

But Rosie searched her eyes and could find nothing but compassion and sincerity in them. And Jack...Jack liked her. He liked her very much, and that had worried Rosie. Miss Fisher might be discreet, but her taste for men had not gone unnoticed, and when they had first met, all Rosie could see was the shark circling her next victim. Jack was her oldest friend, her childhood sweetheart, and she still cared for him. She couldn’t regret leaving Jack; but she regretted having to hurt him to save herself. And she didn’t want this predator prowling through the ruin Rosie had made of their lives.

Rosie thought of the spirit and energy that filled her ex-husband these days. _You’ve got your fire back_ , she told him. She saw the face of the young girl who gave evidence against Sydney, a girl who had been saved by the actions of the woman sitting next to her. Sydney had pointed a gun at Miss Fisher, and Jack had shot him, and Rosie found she was glad.

 If Miss Fisher was a predator, she wasn’t a shark. She was a lioness. Rosie was beginning to understand why Jack refused to give her up.

“Miss Fisher---Phryne....” Rosie hesitated. “I think perhaps you and I should begin again.”

Phryne smiled gently. “I would like that very much, Rosie.”


	4. April 1923

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie attends an ANZAC Day memorial service.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter examines issues of trauma, depression, and infertility. There's nothing graphic but I thought I should mention it; I'm also updating the rating and tags accordingly.

_When the guns fired in August 1914, did the faces of men and women show so plain in each other’s eyes that romance was killed?_

Virginia Woolf, _A Room of One’s Own_

 

She dreads ANZAC Day.

She won’t see him in the morning – he’ll already be gone, to the dawn service, before heading to the station. She won’t see him in the evening either. He’ll work an extra shift, as he always does on this day, and she won’t wait up.

She attends the memorial service with Jack’s parents. The local dignitaries lay a wreath of artificial poppies. The crowd bows their heads as a minister offers a prayer.

There will be yesterday’s cold pie in the oven waiting for him, when he gets home that night. She’ll be in bed, eyes closed, though not sleeping. Listening, trying to gauge his mood from how heavily he walks, if he groans or sighs as he undresses. If he does, it will be a bad week. He’ll be distracted and moody, forgetful. He’ll start half-a-dozen different novels, unable to concentrate. His attention drifting in the middle of conversations, he’ll respond with grunts, if he responds to her at all. He’ll look at her but his eyes won’t see her.

If he moves quietly about the room, if he edges gently into the bed to avoid waking her, it all might pass rather easily. He’ll kiss her shoulder and put an arm around her, curving around her back, and she’ll relax at last, although they probably won’t sleep well. They both sleep badly. Those first few months home he had terrible nightmares, thrashing and sweating, crying out. Calming him is difficult. She has learned not to try to shake him awake. He tends to startle, and swing out involuntarily if she tries to touch him. Once, while still half-asleep, he had accidentally clipped her jaw with the back of his hand. Her tongue had caught between her crashing teeth and she tasted blood. That had been a bad night. Now if she needs to rouse him, she keeps her distance and shouts his name until he wakes.

Some part of her always seems to be listening, watching, waiting. Observing him, even in her sleep.

The prayers concluded, a man in uniform begins reading from “For the Fallen.”

If she fails to draw him out of his fog, he’ll start staying at work past the end of his shift, “tying up loose ends,” or worse, bring paperwork home. Then she’ll spend her evenings watching him obsess over his notes, outline crime scenes at the dining room table. It’s not good for him, spending the winter months fixating on the violence people do to each other. They have endless, circular arguments about it, neither of them winning, nor relenting. “You don’t understand,” he says, over and over.

 He isn’t wrong. She has no clear idea what it was like for him at the Front. He won’t speak of it, and she doesn’t ask. She isn’t sure she wants to know. His letters were affectionate, if vague. Sometimes she wonders if all his affection has been used up, in correspondence, during those four long years.

She knows his hip bothers him more after a long shift. When he comes home after being on his feet all day, his face is white, his jaw set. She doesn’t say anything; drawing attention to it only makes him irritable. He shrugs her off, accuses her of making a fuss. “Just leave it, Rosie,” he snaps. So she pretends not to notice when he leans on doorways, or slouches against the wall, to take the weight off his leg. She contrives ways to make him rest, without seeming to nag. She asks him to help her prepare dinner, when he’s home early. He likes to cook, and it gets him to sit at the kitchen table, shelling peas, chopping carrots. Or she’ll have him hold her skein of yarn while she winds it into a ball. They’ll sit companionably, listening to the wireless.

He’s taken up cycling again, spending hours tinkering with his bicycle in the shed. He rides too far and too fast for her to keep up, so she stays behind. He’ll come back from a long ride and kiss her, grinning as she wrinkles her nose and protests at his dishevelled state. Sometimes she lets him pull her into bed, even if it is the middle of the afternoon, and a Sunday too. She tries not to touch the livid pink scar across his hip, the skin stretched tight and shiny. She tries not to look at it. His body is familiar yet also strange under her hands -- leaner, denser. The angles of his face are sharper; there are scars on his feet from trench foot. His attentions have lost the playfulness of their early days together. (The first time, after he returned, Rosie was terrified that she had hurt him. She had never seen a man cry before). His touch is still gentle, but also searching, desperate, as if he is looking for something in her face, in her body. She doesn’t know what he wants, or how to give it to him. Even afterwards, he never seems at peace, or restful. Merely spent, having given up this time on finding it, whatever it is.

Though he is a considerate lover, and always ensures her satisfaction, she is somehow left wanting.

There are good days. There are whole weeks, sometimes even a stretch of months, when they talk more easily. He remembers how to laugh. They rented a holiday cottage by the seashore in February, to enjoy the last of the summer. She felt self-conscious in the revealing bathing costume, but he smiled, and ran his hand up her exposed legs. It had been a lovely holiday, but nothing came of it, in the end. She’s still hopeful. There’s plenty of time. She imagines herself attending the memorial with a little boy, who has his father’s eyes. Or a little girl, with her mother’s hair.

Perhaps then ANZAC day will no longer annually undo everything she tries to build with him.

_“They went with songs to the battle, they were young._

_Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow._

_They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,_

_They fell with their faces to the foe.”_

She doesn’t particularly care for this poem. It fills her with a dreadful mixture of anger, guilt, and grief. He was only meant to be gone six months. Four years later, she found she had forgotten how tall he was, his smell, the sound of his voice. They patched him up and sent him back to the Front instead of back to her. Without him, she had gotten used to organizing her time to suit herself. Now she spends her days keeping house for a man who is always absent, even when he’s home.

Rosie knows she is fortunate. Jack is healthy, and whole. He isn’t angry or cruel. He doesn’t tremble with shell-shock. He doesn’t drink his pay down at the pub, or lose it in a game of two-up with his mates from the War. She knows he is trying. She’s lucky to have a man like him for a husband.

_“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:_

_Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn._

_At the going down of the sun and in the morning,_

_We will remember them.”_

She wears rosemary on her lapel. Her very name signifies remembrance. She wishes she knew how to help him forget.

 The bugler plays a mournful Last Post.

The service concludes, finally, and she turns to her mother-in-law. Mrs. Robinson is a kind, intelligent woman; Rosie is very fond of her.  As they say their goodbyes, Mrs. Robinson folds her into a hug.

“Tell that son of mine that I said he needs to get home to his wife. How is he going to give me grandchildren if he works constantly?”

Rosie forces a laugh. “Well. He’s hoping to receive a promotion soon, and then we can think about children.”

“Oh my dear,” says Mrs. Robinson, putting her hand to Rosie’s cheek. “Don’t wait to start a family. We none of us should waste any more time. We’re lucky to have him back at all.”

_But he didn’t come back,_ Rosie thinks. _He’s gone._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem recited at the memorial service is by Laurence Binyon, and is a traditional part of ANZAC Day services.


	5. June 1930

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie and Phryne share a bottle of champagne together.

 

_Cleopatra did not like Octavia. And how completely “Antony and Cleopatra” would have been altered had she done so!_

Virginia Woolf, _A Room of One’s Own_

 

She was tipsy. Her head seemed to float, like a boat that had slipped its mooring.  Which she was, Rosie supposed. Cast off, adrift. The sound of polite conversation followed her down the hallway, to where she sat on the service staircase in Mrs. Stanley’s elegant house. Her first social engagement since her life had collapsed was not going very well.

The invitation to Prudence Stanley’s annual fundraiser for the Women’s Hospital had almost certainly been arranged for her by Phryne. Since their encounter in the cafe, there had been invitations to tea, even a luncheon at the Wardlow. Phryne’s companion seemed devoted to her. A newlywed still glowing from the honeymoon, Mrs. Collins struck her as almost painfully young to be married. She made Rosie feel ancient. The evident affection between them surprised her; it was unusual, in two women so different. Women, in Rosie’s experience, did not like each other much, unless they were precisely alike.

They had talked mostly of neutral subjects: art, cinema, the architectural style of the house, Phryne’s many travels, Rosie’s interest in landscape gardening.

They did not speak of Jack.

Rosie suspected she had become something of a pet project for Phryne; she couldn’t bring herself to mind that much. She would take kindness where she could find it these days. And while the Sanderson reputation was still in ruins, people at least nodded politely to her now. Mrs. Stanley’s guests had been unfailingly courteous to her; her face ached with smiling. She had spent most of the evening intensely aware that her dress was four seasons out of fashion. She pretended not to notice the startled recognition in people’s eyes when they heard her surname.

When was the last time she had champagne? The party celebrating her engagement to Sidney, perhaps. She swirled the liquid in her glass. It was better than the stuff Sidney had ordered. Rosie failed to muster a spark of surprise that Sidney would not know true quality-- _nouveau riche_. Like her, like she would have been, if all had gone to plan. No longer the beleaguered housewife to a mid-rank police officer, she was going to be a hostess, a leader of fashionable society. Father had understood, why she left Jack, why she took up with Sidney. His little girl had dreams.

She drained her cup and considered how to find more champagne without braving the crowd. Another round of awkward small talk loomed in her mind. Mrs. Stanley’s house was a labyrinthine warren of rooms, balconies, staircases, and branching corridors (what on earth did she do with that many parlours?). Wandering in search of the kitchen was probably a bad idea. She and Jack had gotten silly on whiskey or beer a few times, but a lady never got smashed in public. “What _would_ mother say,” she muttered to herself.

“Personally, I haven’t listened to my mother since I was 13.”

Rosie looked over her shoulder and saw Phryne standing behind her, another bottle of champagne in her hand.

“Oh thank god,” Rosie held out her glass. “How did you know I needed a top up?”

Phryne sat next to her on the stairs, and poured out the wine. “I saw you were trapped in a corner with Clement Brewster. Any woman would need a drink after enduring a lecture on dental history.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve heard it.”

“Unfortunately. How did you manage to escape?”

“I told him I had female troubles.”

Phryne threw back her head and cackled.

“For a medical man, he seemed quite perturbed by the notion.”

“Aunt P practically threw him at me when I first came back to Melbourne. He’s not a bad sort, but he does love the sound of his own voice. And Aunt Prudence is not the sort to let a good man go to waste.”

“Hm. Not like me then...” Rosie hardly realized she had said it out loud.

“Oh, Rosie...” Phryne began.

Rosie put a hand out to stop her. She looked at Phryne. “My mother never understood why I couldn’t simply make the best of it with Jack. She said I wanted too much.”

Rosie was temporarily stunned by her own confession; it had simply tumbled out. She must be well beyond tipsy at this point.

“In my experience, people usually say that when a woman wants something they find inconvenient,” said Phryne.

“Well, at least she can’t see me now, divorced, disgraced, and hiding from a dentist.”

Phryne had no reply to that. They sat in silence a moment.

Rosie hummed quietly to herself. “ _Tinker, tailor_ , dentist...no, it doesn’t fit.”

“What’s that?”

“That old skipping rope rhyme. It’s been running through my head all evening. The one that tells you what kind of man you’ll marry.”

“I always preferred the ones about Cinderella, myself,” said Phryne. She started chanting, and Rosie joined in:

_“Cinderella, dressed in yellow_

_Went upstairs to kiss her fellow_

_Made a mistake, kissed a snake—“_

Rosie sputtered with hysterical giggles. “Oh my,” she gasped.  “I never realized how rude they were...!”

“Filthy.” Phryne agreed. “There’s one about babies and bathtubs, isn’t there? And to think my father didn’t want me to learn human biology in school, in case it corrupted my morals...”

“Why are they always about babies?” Rosie wondered. “And marriage. There aren’t any rhymes about divorced women.”

“Or spinsters.”

“No. They wouldn’t be rhymes, would they? They’d be warnings.”

“You’re not a cautionary tale, Rosie,” Phryne said softly.

Rosie didn’t answer. She stared into her drink, her heart full of sharp edges.

“ _It’s poverty only that makes celibacy contemptible_ ,” she quoted. “ _A single woman of good fortune is always respectable_.”

Phryne snorted. “Tell that to my Aunt Prudence.”

It was a line from something she had read once; she couldn’t remember what. Jack would know. She and Jack had played a game, during their courtship, and the early years of their marriage. One of them would drop a quote into conversation, and the other would have to identify it. Back and forth they would trade references, like a game of tennis, until one of them was stumped. The forfeit was a kiss. Rosie used to accuse Jack of cheating.

“This champagne is marvellous,” she said, after a pause. She wanted the conversation to continue, for Phryne to stay with her, but she didn’t know what to talk about.

Phryne hummed her agreement. “Aunt P throws dreadful parties. Terrible guests, but at least the drink is always decent.”

“Jack hates parties,” Rosie murmured, almost to herself.

“Does he?” Phryne’s voice was non-committal.

“Haven’t you noticed? We used to have dreadful rows about it. He always hated entertaining.”

“He does have a habit of standing in a corner, like a coat rack,” Phryne said wryly.

Rosie tried to picture the kinds of parties Phryne hosted, in that beautiful house. It would be filled with colourful, vaguely disreputable people – artists and actors and bohemians. There would be jazz music, and strong liquor, and probably other substances. In the background would be Jack, tinkering at the piano. She was attracted and disturbed by the image. It shouldn’t make sense, yet Phryne had a way of making space for those she gathered around her, however varied and unique they were. If Jack attended Phryne’s parties and spent the evening leaning in the doorway, quietly observing, she would let him. She wouldn’t insist he play host, like Rosie used to. _I was trying to help his career_ , she thought. _It’s what a wife should do._ She had spent her whole life _trying_ , in one way or another; for what, she no longer knew.

Phryne was watching her gently. Rosie recalled a rather unpleasant scene between them in that house. It had galled her to see Jack leaning against Phryne’s mantelpiece, as if it were his own. He had never looked so comfortable in their own home.

“I don’t mind, you know,” Rosie said.

Phryne looked puzzled at this statement.

“You...and Jack,” Rosie clarified. “I did, at first. Jack and I have known each other since we were children. It seems I’m rather...protective of him. Strange as it sounds.” _Perhaps_ , she thought, _I feel I’m the only one allowed to hurt him._

“Jack tends to inspire loyalty in his friends,” Phryne replied quietly.

 “You care for him.” Rosie looked at her.

“I do.” Phryne met her eyes steadily.

“Good. I’m glad,” she said fiercely. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be; my sister Iris is quite shocked at me even speaking to you. It isn’t done – one isn’t friendly with an ex-husband’s....” She waved her hand in a vague gesture, searching for a word that would encompass their relationship.

“Why ever not?” asked Phryne, eyebrow raised. “I never let a man interfere in my friendships, whoever he may be.”

Rosie shrugged at this. “Jack and I were always better friends than lovers.”

Phryne leaned in close, with a conspiratorial look. “Can you imagine his face if he saw us here, chatting like old school chums?” She grinned wickedly.

Rosie rocked with laughter. “I can just see it! He’d stand there with his mouth open and blink like owl!”

“He would!” laughed Phryne.

“It’s rather sweet, really, when he does that,” Rosie sighed. “Oh, poor Jack. I’m sure he thought his troubles were over.”

“More fool him,” Phryne said, emptying the rest of the bottle into their glasses.

 As her laughter faded, Rosie was struck by a revelation. She missed him. She didn’t miss being his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line Rosie quotes is from Jane Austen's _Emma._
> 
> Also, I obviously have no idea if Australian girls of the era had jump-rope rhymes like that; I used ones that I remembered singing as a kid in the late 80s/early 90s. Forgive the blatant anachronism!
> 
> ETA: I suddenly realized everyone might not be familiar with the first jump rope rhyme Rosie refers to; these are the words to the version I learned:
> 
> _Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,  
>  Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief,  
> Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,  
> Rich man, poor man, etc._


	6. October 1923

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions between Jack and Rosie build as the Victorian Constabulary goes on strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter briefly depicts the aftermath of a miscarriage, but it's not detailed or explicit.

 

_Am I kin to Sorrow,_

_That so oft_

_Falls the knocker of my door—_

_Neither loud nor soft,_

_But as long accustomed,_

_Under Sorrow’s hand?_

Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Kin to Sorrow"

 

She sat listening to the wireless and knitted. Plain white wool, an intricate lace pattern that required focus and concentration. She required something to absorb her attention, stop her thinking. The radio program was one of the many indistinguishable domestic dramas---apparently the eldest daughter was in love with someone unsuitable again. She couldn’t keep her mind on the details, but the murmur of voices was soothing, and covered the sound of the clock ticking away on the mantelpiece.

Jack’s meeting was scheduled to end at 8, but it was nearly 9:30.

The front door opened and closed, and she switched off the wireless. She wound up her yarn with a deliberate slowness, neatly returned her work to its basket by the sofa.

Jack shrugged out of his uniform jacket as he walked into the living room.

“Well?” she said.

“There’s going to be a strike. Next week.” He sat down heavily in the armchair. “We’ve run out of options.”

“We?” Rosie asked, determined to keep her voice level. Her pulse began to thump in her ears. “Are you saying you’re going to participate? Walk out?”

“I don’t have a choice, Rosie.”

“Of course you have a choice!” Rosie spat, her resolution to stay calm crumbling. “What on earth do you think you can accomplish by walking out on your job?”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He only did that when he was getting irritated; the sight provoked her already frayed nerves. If anyone was entitled to be angry, surely it was her. This stand-off between the constabulary and Russell Street had dragged on for months, and while the situation was not improving, that was no reason to deliberately make things worse.

“Do we need to go over this again?” Jack’s voice was low with weariness. She felt a moment’s guilt, since he had put in a full day’s shift before attending the organizing meeting.  “If we present our grievances collectively--“

“Yes, Jack, I’ve heard your Bolshevism lecture before. Do you realize what you sound like?”

“Demanding a fair wage and a decent pension hardly makes me a red ragger, for god’s sake.”

She stood up abruptly and started to pace. Jack stayed in his chair, elbows on his knees, staring at his shoes. Rosie began mentally calculating how long their savings would last against their mortgage payments, and whether the baby would arrive before the money ran out. Mother and Father would help, if she asked, but Jack’s pride wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps Harold could find him something, she could speak to Iris...but Jack wasn’t qualified for anything but police work. That left the docks, then. They’d have to move.

“Why can’t you send another petition around?”

“There’s no point!” Jack’s voice was sharp. “Russell Street’s rejected our petitions twice now. They’ve got men keeping an eye on us; I think Wilson must be one of them.  Someone’s reporting our activities, trying to prevent us organizing.”

“Well, that’s certainly the most pressing problem you have, how to organize the subversives on the Victoria Police Force!”

“It’s not subversion, Rosie, to want to be treated fairly. It’s a difficult job—“

“Yes, and it’s only going to get more difficult if you – you— _revolt!_ ” she sputtered. “What happens to us then? How am I supposed to look my father in the eye?”

“This has nothing to do with George—“

“I can’t believe you’d betray him like this.” She had brought her mother round to the idea of their marriage by arguing for Jack’s prospects for advancement. Now he would make a liar of her.

“It’s not betrayal, it’s a matter of principle. I’d hoped you’d understood that.” He was being so bloody _reasonable_ , speaking to her as if she were a child. She wanted to shake him.

“Principle!” She was so appalled, she almost laughed. “Is it _principled_ to put your family at risk? Even if they let you keep your position, do you think they’ll ever promote you to inspector if you strike?”

Jack stared. “Is that what this is about? A promotion?”

“I’m thinking of our future, Jack. I’d appreciate it if you did the same.”

That did it. He stood, but his voice was controlled.

“Our future will be grim if they won’t raise our pay and give us pensions, whether or not I make Inspector.”

“Jack, listen to me.” She tried to adopt a persuasive tone. “Father says you could be deputy commissioner one day, or even better than that. You’ve caught the attention of the right people“-- at this Jack rolled his eyes – “and you have the skills for it.” She reached out for his arm, but he stepped away from her hand. “Then you’d be in a position to change things. And you wouldn’t have to handle with these horrible murder cases.” She could stop wondering how many corpses his hands had touched when he came home from work.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“You can do so much better, Jack!”

“I don’t want to do _better_ , Rosie. I want to do my job. If we’re successful—“

“If!” She was close to tears now. “You’re gambling everything we have on _if_ —“

“What do you want from me, Rosie?” He raised his voice, finally.

“I want you to do the right thing.”

“And that’s precisely what I will do. I’m sorry you can’t understand that.” His voice was cold again, and she knew she had lost the argument. He grabbed his jacket.

 “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“You haven’t eaten anything—“

“I’m not hungry.” He didn’t look at her, and did up his buttons hurriedly. “I need some air.”

She stood and listened as the front door slammed shut.

****

The strike lasted a gruelling 48 hours. After the riots had ended, the dismissals began.

She was in the garden when he came home, a week later. The evenings were longer now, and she had spent the day with her hands in the dirt, ripping out weeds. It was satisfying work; she filled her mind with the rich smell of earth and freshly bloomed roses. She didn’t allow herself to think how pointless her efforts would be if they had to sell the house. She heard the back door open, and his footsteps as he walked up behind her. She didn’t look up, knees in the dirt, shoulders tense, waiting for the ax to fall.

“I’m one of the lucky ones,” he said. “I get to keep my position. They’ve sacked most of the others...but those of us left have pensions now.”

Somehow it felt more like a reprieve than a victory; still, her head spun with relief. She stood slowly and turned around, wiping her hands on her apron. “Thank god. Father said—“

“You spoke to your father about this?” he asked sharply.

“Of course, Jack!” His glare cut right through her. “I had to do _something_.” 

“I asked you to leave him out of this.”

“Why on earth shouldn’t I ask my father for help?” Sometimes she didn't understand Jack at all.

“If you can ask me that, I can’t explain it to you.” He stalked back into the house.

****

She was curled up on the bed. Jack came in and placed a cup of tea on the bedside table, next to a previous one, long since gone cold. The mattress dipped as he sat down quietly behind her. She didn’t acknowledge him.

“Rosie.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder; her muscles stiffened at the touch. She was still in her dressing gown; she had made breakfast, returned to bed, and remained there the rest of the day. She was still there when he got home.

“I hate to see you suffer like this. Perhaps...we should stop trying.”

She was coiled tight like a spring; if she moved, she would fly apart with the tension quivering inside her.

_If we hadn’t been quarrelling. If you hadn’t made me sick with worry._

“It’s not meant to be, love.”

She had to get out of this house. The last time, she had pulled out her old copy of _The Woman’s Book_ and thrown herself into a frenzy of domestic projects – re-papered the bedroom walls, filled the pantry with jars of marmalade. Now, she couldn’t move.

“Iris telephoned,” she said to the wall. “She wants me to stay with her a few days. Harold has a business trip to Sydney. “

He was silent for a moment.

“If you think that’s best.”

She lay still until he left the room. Then she rose and brought her valise out of the closet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so I really do promise this will have a happy ending? I know it doesn't feel like it at the moment, but I swear this isn't angst for angst's sake (not that there's anything wrong with that...!). Sketching in what we know of Rosie's life based on the bare facts we're given has resulted in some grim conclusions; and one of the main reasons for writing this fic was so I could make sure that Rosie gets a happy ending (eventually).
> 
> Wikipedia has a helpful article on the 1923 Police Strike, for the curious.


	7. July 1930

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past and present converge as Rosie visits an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last this fic is updated! Not only that, it's completed! \o/ I'll be posting the rest of the chapters throughout the week. I couldn't have done it without the Writing Room gang cheering me on and troubleshooting when I had writer's block. Thanks to Firesign and Whilenotwriting for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Everybody got your hankies ready? ;-)

_After all, my erstwhile dear,_

_My no longer cherished,_

_Need we say it was not love,_

_Now that love is perished?_

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Passer Mortuus Est.”

 

Rosie resisted the temptation to adjust her hat or her scarf. It was strange, to be standing here, feeling anxious, after all this time.

The door opened, and Rosie gave her warmest smile.

“Hello Jack. May I come in?”

Jack stood and blinked at her, and Rosie regretted not ringing him in advance. She had been afraid of losing her nerve, if she made prior arrangements. His reassuring smile eased her mind. “Rosie--of course...” He stepped back and held the door open.

They stood in the hallway, looking at each other; Jack still had his hand on the doorknob.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m well, thank you.”

 She hadn’t been in this house since the day she walked away from their marriage. For an unsettling moment, she felt as if the last 5 years hadn’t happened. Then she noticed the table.

“You’ve moved the furniture, I see.”

“Ah...yes.”

The table for the post was on the far side of the hall, opposite the mirror now.

***

_She puts her purse on the hall table. She studies her reflection in the mirror above, adjusting her hat. Harold is putting her suitcases in the car out front. Jack is working a double shift; neither of them wanted a scene. She knows he still hopes for a reconciliation. She packed the magazine article in her valise, paragraphs underlined in pencil. She knows it will be three years before she can ask him to file for desertion._

_For now, she is alone in the house. She has been alone here for so long; it has been more of a spouse to her than her husband. She can smell her roses in the garden. She made the doilies that decorate the hall table, the sofa, the chairs. She wonders what Jack will do with them, after she is gone. She will miss this house. She already misses the plans she had for it. She examines her hands for a moment; her cuticles are ragged. In a swift moment she twists off the ring and places it on the centre of the doily. She draws her gloves on quickly, flexing her fingers. She secures her hat with a pin. Her appearance is fastidiously neat. She feels the tidy order of her clothing is the only thing preventing her from flying to pieces. She picks up her purse and opens the door._

_***_

The doilies were gone, she noticed, as he led her into the parlour. Of course, they would be.  Jack was always simple in his tastes. The furniture here had also been moved; and some of it was different from what she remembered. The clock on the mantle, a wedding present from her cousin, was still there.

***

_The ticking clock fills the room in the sudden silence. They haven’t quarrelled in months . Silence has been all too familiar of late. It presses down like a storm front, the clock emphasizing every tense second that passes. The word “divorce” echoes in the air._

_“We made a promise, Rosie.” They stand facing each other across the room, like duellists._

_“I never promised to be miserable for the rest of my life.” The words fly out of her mouth without thought; she cannot take them back because they’re true._

_He flinches as if she had slapped him. She never forgets his expression in that moment_.

***

They sat awkwardly for a minute, before Jack jumped up. “Shall I make us some tea?” he suggested. She didn’t want tea, particularly; but she did want something to do with her hands. “Sounds lovely,” she replied, too cheerfully.

“I’ll just be two ticks,” Jack murmured, moving toward the kitchen.

“Jack,” she stood, putting a hand on his arm, “let me help.”

 He nodded, and Rosie’s shoulders relaxed.

In the kitchen, she filled the kettle as Jack organized the teapot and cups (he’d rearranged the dishes too, and the silverware).

“Sit, please,” he insisted, putting tea in the pot. “Tell me how you’ve been.”

“Oh,” Rosie said with a sigh, “where do I even begin?”

She mentioned Iris’ little girl, and they spoke of safe subjects for a while – Jack’s nephews, his mother’s health. Jack stood to lift the whistling kettle from the stove.

***

 _The heat from the range dries her tears even as they roll down her face. She has been crying, silently, off and on all day, and she can’t even say why. She wonders if this is what hysteria feels like. She can’t remember the last time he touched her with desire. She can’t remember the last time she wanted him to_.

***

She accepted the cup gratefully, enjoying the bitter taste, laced with the two sugars he added without asking. He still remembered how she takes her tea; she always did have a sweet tooth.

“You look well.” Jack’s movements were calm and easy; she couldn’t remember the last time he seemed this comfortable in his skin. He looked older, but somehow less worn.

“I am well...” Rosie agreed. “I’m recovering, I suppose.” She sipped her tea. “And you, Jack—you seem happy.” She looked into his eyes, hoping he would understand her.

Jack nodded self-consciously, looking down at his hands. He cleared his throat. “Rosie, I should tell you---”

“Phryne says you had a wonderful time together in England.” It wasn’t the most subtle approach, perhaps. But she was tired of leaving things unsaid.

He looked at her with a questioning expression, and she explained, “Miss Fisher and I have spent some time becoming better acquainted.”

“So I’ve heard. I’m glad.”

She reached out to take his hand. “So am I. Are you...”  She had no right to ask, but she needed to know.  “Are you going to marry her?”  

Jack was silent a moment, and it was with some wry humor when he replied, “She’s not the marrying kind.”

Rosie laughed. “No, I suppose she isn’t.” It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps he no longer wanted to be a husband, any more than she wanted to be a wife.

“I am sorry, Rosie. For...so much.” His thumb pressed softly where he held her fingers.

“I’m sorry too.”  

They sat quietly for some time, finishing their tea. _How strange_ , she thought, _to feel happy in this place again._

“I like what you’ve done to the house. It suits you.”

He stood then, smiling, and offered her his hand.  “Come and see the garden.”

As they walked toward the back of the house, Rosie paused briefly in the doorway of the room she had once thought of as the children’s. He’d filled it with bookshelves; there was a comfortable armchair, and a desk in the corner. The familiar ghost of old pain settled in her chest. She turned to find him looking back at her. “I’m glad you finally learned not to stack books all over the house,” she said gently, as they stepped outside.

***

_Jack is in the shed, tinkering with his bicycle. She’s pruning back the bushes, deadheading faded flowers, preparing for next year’s blooms. She has ambitious plans for this garden. It’s a peaceful afternoon, both of them content to apply themselves to their separate hobbies. It’s good to keep busy; it stops her from thinking too much._

_***_

“Oh Jack,” she exclaimed, looking at all the plants he’d nurtured. “It’s lovely.” She reached out and took his hand. Her roses were still there.


	8. August 1930

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie attends one of Phryne's parties.

_Let us admit in the privacy of our own society that these things sometimes happen. Sometimes women do like women._

Virginia Woolf, _A Room of One’s Own_

 

“Rosie! Excellent.” Phryne greeted her at the door of the Wardlow with a welcoming smile. The sound of Fletcher Henderson spilled out the doorway into the evening air.

 Phryne had described the gathering as a “salon for like-minded women”; judging by Harold’s expression when Rosie told him of it, she may as well have used the word _orgy_. There had been a bit of clash with Harold over her attendance; he was still anxious for Rosie’s reputation. When she had pointed out his lack of objection to Mrs. Stanley’s fundraising gala, Harold had replied with, “Mrs. Stanley is a paragon of respectability,” in the same tone of voice he would use to calm a skittish horse. “The same cannot be said for her niece,” he added. Harold’s interference was becoming more annoying; but Rosie was getting used to disregarding his opinion entirely.

Phryne took her arm. “What are you drinking?”

“Scotch and soda, please.”

“Another one, Mac!” Phryne called out. “Mr. Butler has the evening off, so Mac’s playing bartender tonight.”

“Coming up!” A woman with brilliant red hair saluted Phryne with a silver shaker. Rosie decided she would definitely not be mentioning the woman dressed in men’s clothing to Iris.  She did her best not to gawk. She had never met an invert before; she had heard of such things, of course, when Jack had worked in Vice, but it wasn’t the sort of topic discussed in polite circles.

“Mac, this is Rosie Sanderson,” Phryne said.

Mac gave Phryne a knowing look. Phryne shrugged.  “The more the merrier, Miss Sanderson.” She handed Rosie a glass.

“Thank you, Miss...?”

“Just Mac will do,” Mac said, winking at her as she sipped her whisky. Rosie flushed. Phryne laughed, “Pay no attention to her, Rosie, she’s an incorrigible flirt.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Mac scoffed.  

It was a relaxed gathering of perhaps a dozen women, more varied than Rosie had ever encountered before. Everyone seemed to be involved in something interesting: the arts, or journalism, or just fast living. She met Lillian Elsworth, visiting from America, who indulged Rosie with stories of her native country. She was impressed by Camellia, who evidently ran an organization that provided education and literacy for immigrant women. She even found herself in conversation with Regina Charlesworth, editor of Women’s Choice. Rosie took the opportunity to thank her for an article on divorce that was featured several years ago. “It was a great help to me.”

“And that is precisely why I do what I do, Miss Sanderson,” Miss Charlesworth replied, her voice full of conviction. “And let me tell you, we received some pretty fierce letters about that one.”

Rosie noticed that many of the guests seemed to have a connection to Jack as well as Phryne. She wondered how many women would recognize her name, or know of her connection to Jack. Melbourne felt like a very small place, sometimes. She struggled to introduce herself without referencing to someone else: George Sanderson’s daughter, the ex-Mrs. Robinson, Sidney’s former fiancée --even Harold’s (troublesome) sister-in-law. One didn’t think of Phryne as the Baron of Richmond’s daughter, or Mrs. Stanley’s spinster niece. She was always herself, completely, whatever else she was to Jack.

Phryne interrupted these depressing ruminations with a fresh drink.  “Let me introduce you to Miss Lee,” she said, drawing Rosie across the room to the window seat. ”Damned clever woman, one of my more brilliant discoveries. Sylvia, this is Rosie Sanderson. Rosie, Miss Lee.”

Rosie shook hands with a strikingly lovely woman. She had the cool, blonde elegance that tended to make Rosie feel self-conscious, like the freckled, skinny girl she had once been.

“Rosie and I belong to a rather exclusive club,” Phryne said mischievously.

Rosie shot Phryne a wary look.

“Jack’s ex-wife,” Phryne explained, nodding towards Rosie.

“I see,” replied Sylvia.

“You know Jack?” Rosie asked.

“In a manner of speaking. I was a suspect in one of his cases. Phryne proved my innocence.”

“Ah.” Rosie wanted to commiserate, but didn’t know where to start. “Jack was always...very thorough in his work.”

“I don’t have any hard feelings, though, Miss Sanderson. He was only doing his job.” 

“Of course. I’m glad Phryne was able to help.”

“I hear there’s a new shipment in from Paris?” Phryne asked, with a gleam in her eye that Rosie suspected meant trouble.

Sylvia smiled knowingly. “Just arrived on Thursday. Call in on Monday and I’ll have your order ready for you.”

“Excellent.” Phryne looked like the proverbial cat that ate a canary. “Is it true you’re looking for an assistant for the shop?” Phryne asked.

“Yes, but I’m having difficulty finding someone with the skills I need. And I can’t afford to pay very much.”

“It’s a shame Aunt P doesn’t train her Gratitude Girls in the science of book-keeping,” Phryne said wryly.

“You’re a businesswoman, Miss Lee?” Rosie asked, intrigued.

“Yes, I own a bookshop. I’ve only recently moved the business to new premises in McKinley Street.”

“How lovely!” Rosie said, with genuine surprise. Rosie’s mind rattled off a thousand questions—how did she get started? Was it a family enterprise? However did she get a business loan on her own?

“Unfortunately, in this economy, few want to spend money on avant-garde literature. Are you fond of books, Miss Sanderson?”

“I used to be, as a girl. Now I find I have time again to read, but I struggle to find something that catches my interest.”

 “What are your tastes in literature?”

“Oh...non-fiction, I suppose. Not romances,” she added, somewhat sharply. “Or crime stories.” She shrugged. “I find most novels rather insipid,” Rosie admitted. “I’ve tried to read Hemingway, and Fitzgerald, but I can’t really care about such dreary heroes. And books about women are rather tiresome love stories. They don’t seem to write novels about women...well, like us.”

“Unattached women, you mean.”

“Yes. But I don’t sleep well, and I like to have something to read then. One can only read Dickens and George Eliot so many times...”

Sylvia agreed, smiling. Rosie was struck by how dramatically it changed her features; she was suddenly warm, and responsive.

“Why don’t you visit the shop sometime, Miss Sanderson. I have a few titles you might enjoy.”

“Thank you, Miss Lee.”

“Please, call me Sylvia.”

“Sylvia then. I’ll do that.”

They spent the rest of the evening engrossed in conversation, Rosie leaning forward over her crossed knees, Sylvia lounging against the window. Sylvia had a dry sense of humor that Rosie liked; it was reminiscent of Jack, but without the bitter edge he had developed over the years. Sylvia was more well-versed in contemporary literature; when she discussed writers like Colette and Gertrude Stein, her enthusiasm made her blue eyes luminous in the lamplight.

They were interrupted by the clock striking midnight. “Oh, damn!” Rosie cursed, the effect of several highballs overcoming her manners. “I’ll have missed the last tram.” Harold would be furious at her for returning home at such a late hour. She could hear his lecture on the example she set the children already.

“Never mind, Rosie, I’ll have Bert take you home,” Phryne reassured her.

Rosie smiled her thanks and turned back to Sylvia. “I’m sorry to leave in the middle of our conversation – I’ve so enjoyed meeting you, Sylvia.”

“Likewise. Perhaps we could continue another time?” Sylvia held her eyes, before drawing a card out of her purse. “Here’s the shop address. Do stop by whenever you like.”

During the ride home, Rosie turned the card over and over in her hands as the street lights flashed by.  _Lee’s Books & Periodicals, 101 McKinley Street_, it read. _Quality literature at affordable prices. Miss Sylvia Lee, proprietor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lillian Elsworth is an original character from Gaslightgallows' fics, starting with "The Domestic Lives of Detectives". Thanks for letting me borrow her, even if it was only a cameo mention in the end!


	9. September 1930

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie visits George in prison

_Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size._

Virginia Woolf, _A Room of One’s Own_

 

Rosie slowly followed the prison guard through the corridors of the Victoria State Penitentiary. She passed through an endless procession of locked, then unlocked doors; bright sunlight glared through barred windows. Unsettling echoes followed her footsteps. But Rosie felt far removed from it, watching herself as though she were a character in a silent film. The world seemed muted; she had expected to feel intimidated, or depressed. Instead she felt nothing at all.

The guard unlocked a final door to a room, where her father sat at a metal table. George had never been a large man, but Rosie was shocked at how much smaller he seemed. His prison uniform hung loosely on him, like a grotesque fancy dress costume.

“Rosie.” George stood and smiled. He held out his hands to her. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Father,” Rosie said, avoiding his eyes and sitting down in the chair across from his.

George stood awkwardly a moment, hands hovering uselessly in midair. Then he took his seat.

“What do you want, Father? Why did you ask me to come here?”

Now that she was facing him, the reality of the situation struck her in horribly vivid detail. George had lost weight, his face gaunt and pale. The room smelled dank; she could feel the iron and stone weight of the prison looming over and around her, trapping her in this close cell. She wanted to dig her nails into her palms to stem the rising bile in her throat, but her gloves blunted the pressure. She bit her tongue instead.

“I wanted to see you, to make sure you’re all right.” George paused.  “You look well.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Good. That’s good.”

Silence fell between them, like a lead weight.

This was a terrible idea. She should have brought stoic Harold with her. She should never have come. She should have refused all communication.

“Harold says Philip Newman has been calling at the house often.”

“Yes, well, he’s a partner at the firm.” Rosie tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Surely you didn’t bring me here to discuss Harold’s colleagues?”

“I worry about your future.” George looked at her with patient concern. “Philip could be good for you, my dear, and you for him.” His sensible tone set her teeth on edge.

“What’s that’s supposed to mean?”

“Just...consider the possibility.” George said placatingly. “He’s a good man.”

“I remember you called Sidney a good man. Forgive me if I no longer trust your judgement in such matters.”

George turned red, and cleared his throat. “Well. We can discuss it some other time; I didn’t ask to you here to talk about Philip. I wanted to tell you about my decision regarding your inheritance.”

Rosie stared at him, baffled. Her pulse started a rapid staccato in her chest. “My inheritance? Are you...unwell?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” George waved his hand dismissively. “I want to sign over the estate to you, my girl. I’m worried about your future, and I think it would be for the best if I gave you control of the family assets...such as they are, now.”

Rosie was stunned. George seemed to take her silence as encouragement, and continued with his explanation.

“Of course, Harold’s firm will handle the day-to-day business---I don’t want you to worry about that. And I’m sure he will offer his assistance in any decisions you might face. But the bulk of it will be in your name.”

Rosie found her voice at last. “I don’t understand.” She couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing. To avoid estate taxes, should he die in prison? Did he think he could recoup his losses, once he was paroled, under the cover of her name?

“Rosie, my dear.” He reached out a hand across the table. She kept hers clasped firmly in her lap. “I know mistakes were made. I made an error in judgement with Sidney, I see that now. I regret the effect this affair has had on you, and on Iris. But Iris has Harold. I want to help you. I think this will be best for everyone. And when I’m paroled...we can start over. Leave Melbourne, if you wish. Let me try to put things right.”

Rosie inhaled deeply, considering. “Just answer one question.”

“Of course. I’m happy to explain anything you find confusing.” George regarded her tolerantly.

“How long were you taking bribes? How long did you look the other way, to further your own career?”

She left her real questioned implied, but unspoken: How much of the Sanderson family fortunes were built on his corruption? 

George fixed her with a wounded glare. “I told you, it wasn’t like that, mistakes were made, and I trusted the wrong man. Surely you can see I never meant any harm to come to you or my family. I have only ever tried to do what’s best for you.”

All of it, then. Or enough as made no difference: it was dirty money, through and through.

She let the silence drag out between them.

George fidgeted. “I’m only thinking of your welfare.”

“I’m sure you are.” She could see how he framed it in his own mind: rescuing his ruined daughter, making her marriageable again. And if it put him in a position to recover some of his posiiton, once paroled, so much the better. Sudden tears welled in her eyes, which only made her angry. She blinked hard, and swallowed before continuing.

“I’m remembering of how many occasions you’ve been concerned for my welfare, Father, and how often that concern suited your own interests. Supporting Jack’s career so he would feel loyal to you. Asking me to persuade him against striking. Introducing me to Sidney. Even the divorce—did you only go against mother and support my decision once you realized Jack was no longer an asset to you?”

“You’re being unfair. I won’t listen to this—“

“Yes, you _will_ listen.” She leaned forward, and spoke slowly. “I don’t want your money, do you understand? I don’t want any further part of-- whatever it is you’re planning. If you send me the paperwork, I won’t sign it. Harold can talk till he’s blue in the face. I want nothing to do with any of this.”

She stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly behind her. She knocked on the cell door to summon the guard.

“Rosie.”

She faced the small window of the door as the guard turned the lock. She wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t.

“Please, Rosie.” It was the quiet voice her father had often used when she was a child.

She turned around.

“What are you going to do?”

She looked at him for a long moment, full of a terrible sadness, before answering. “I really have no idea.”

****

The cabbie was slouched in his seat with his cap over his eyes when Rosie returned. He jumped out of the cab and opened the door, holding her elbow gently as she sat. “Here, Miss, you look peaky.”

Rosie sighed as she sat heavily in the cab. “Thank you, Mr...?”

“Yates. But everyone calls me Cec.”

“Thank you, Cec.” She opened her compact and checked her makeup as Cec walked around to the driver’s seat. Her reflection trembled in her hand.

“Back home, miss?” Cec asked, blue eyes catching hers as he looked over his shoulder.

Rosie looked at the penitentiary for a long moment. She couldn’t quite face the prospect of Iris’ questions, or Harold’s solicitude. But she didn’t want to be alone, either.

“Can you take me to McKinley Street instead, please? There’s a bookshop halfway down I’d like to visit. And please, call me Rosie.”

“No worries, Miss Rosie,” Cec replied, starting up the cab. Rosie settled back into the seat and closed her eyes for the duration of the journey.

When he pulled up in front the shop, Cec asked, “Do you want me to wait again?”

“No thank you , Cec. I can take the tram home.”

She tipped Cec  generously (it was Harold’s money, in any case) and entered the shop. At the sound of the door bell, Sylvia Lee looked up from her ledger and smiled.

“Hello, Rosie. How nice to see you again.”

Rosie returned the smile. “Sylvia. I thought I’d take you up on that offer.”


	10. October 1930

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie can't sleep.

 

_Women at your toil,_  
  _Women at your leisure_  
 _Till the kettle boil,_  
 _Snatch of me your pleasure,_  
 _Where the broom-straw marks the leaf;_  
 _Women quiet with your weeping_  
 _Lest you wake a workman sleeping,_  
 _Mix me with your grief!_

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “The Poet and His Book”

 

 

She was determined not to look at the clock. It stood with its face turned to the wall, behind the stack of books on the bedside table. Better not to know what time it was, or how little sleep she would get tonight.

In the next room, little Violet began to cry. Rosie rubbed her eyes and reached for the book at the top of the stack. She had bought a mixed selection on Sylvia’s recommendation and was paging through them idly: _A Room of One’s Own, Lolly Willowes, A Woman’s Hardy Garden, The Crowded Street_. Her mind rushed about like a fly trapped under glass.

She had most of the week doing sums, trying to make the numbers add up to something useful, to make 2 plus 2 equal 5. She had rejected her father’s offer on instinct, as much as principle. But looking at her situation now, the impact of her decision made her sick with anxiety. Her small inheritance from her mother had been persuaded away in bits and pieces by Sidney— largely invested in stocks he recommended that were now worthless. She had also covered his “unforeseen expenses,” and placed non-refundable deposits on the house they would never own and a wedding that would never happen. All of which had seemed so reasonable at the time, of course.

Rationally, she knew the money George offered was not enough to offset those losses. The combination of the economic crash and legal expenses had devastated the Sanderson finances. Her parents’ house had been sold. Nevertheless, without her father’s money, she had no other source of income, beyond what she had salvaged, combined with Harold’s generosity.

Rosie pushed down the familiar mix of rage and self-hatred that arose whenever she thought of Sidney. She tried to focus on her book, turning to the page she had marked with Sylvia’s business card. That first visit to the shop, after the argument with her father, had been exactly what she needed. Sylvia had made her a cup of tea in the back room; Rosie had been soothed by her quiet conversation. They were fast becoming friends, and Phryne liked congratulate herself for arranging it.

She dragged her wandering mind back to _Lolly Willowes_ , a queer little novel about a spinster who sells her soul to Satan in exchange for her own house. Rosie didn’t blame Lolly in the least, as she reviewed her own limited options. She had a small nest egg; enough for a deposit on a flat, and a year’s tenancy. She wasn’t sure it would stretch to cover utilities and living expenses as well. And even if it did, what then? What would she do when the money was gone? She had no job, no experience of working. She had a diploma from Melbourne Ladies College and a history of voluntary charitable activities. Her only useful skill was her ability to manage a budget. Who on earth would give a job to a 37 year old woman with no training or qualifications? Was it selfish of her to even ask when men with families were being laid off in the hundreds every day?

She really should thank God for Iris. Without her sister she’d probably still be Mrs. Robinson. Mother had refused to let her move back home. Rosie had wanted a clean break from Jack, and by the time the divorce had finally gone through, there had been Sidney. Jack would help her, even now, if she asked. But she couldn’t do that, for her own sake as well as his.

She shut _Lolly Willowes_ in frustration; she had reread this paragraph at least 3 times, and still had no idea what it said. It wasn’t sinking in. She picked up the book of gardening advice and flipped randomly through the pages.

_“If you are a beginner in the art, and the place is new and large, go to a good landscape gardener and let him give advice and make you a plan. But don’t follow it; at least not at once, nor all at one time. Live there for a while, until you yourself begin to feel what you want, and where you want it...Patience and perseverance are traits necessary to the gardener...If a set of plants die, or do not flourish this year, try them again next season, under different conditions, until the difficulties are overcome.”_

She realized suddenly she was hungry. It was pointless, sitting in bed waiting for sleep to arrive, as if it were a cat out roaming the neighbourhood. She threw back the covers and stepped into her slippers, belted her robe, and made her way into the dark hallway. The light from the moon and the streetlamps made distorted shadows on the walls. She left the lights off; there were few things more depressing than a brightly lit kitchen in the middle of the night. She dug a spare candle and matches out of a drawer, preferring the soft glow of a flame. The room was cool, and Rosie felt her frantic mind begin to settle as she went through the comforting motions of warming milk on the stove, buttering a slice of bread. She dreaded the fatigue she would feel in the day; but truth be told, she rather enjoyed these solitary moments, alone with the night.

She stirred the milk, contemplating her situation. Would it be such a bad life, living here, the spinster aunt? Perhaps not, if it were simply a matter of living with Iris and the children. She was growing fond of little Violet. But it meant enduring Harold’s officious attempts to look after her “best interests.” It was exasperating. And it was wearing to be always cramped in a corner of the house, with no space of her own, beholden to other people’s decisions, other people’s schedules. Harold wasn’t a bad man, and he did care for his family. It was also clear he felt she was a burdensome responsibility he must manage.

Pouring the milk into the mug, she went to the kitchen door and looked out into the garden. The cool night air smelled of rain coming, and greenery. She sipped her milk as an unexpected thought floated to the surface of her mind: _I wonder what Phryne would do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lolly Willowes_ was published in 1926 by Sylvia Townsend Warner. She was a bisexual woman (and communist) who spent her life with her butch lover, the poet Valetine Ackland, in a small village in rural England (hence my winking use of the word "queer" :-). If you haven't read _Lolly Willowes_ , you're missing a treat.
> 
> _The Crowded Street_ , by Winifred Holtby, was published in 1924 and although I haven't read it, it deals with the position of single women and their right to determine the direction of their own lives.
> 
> Virginia Woolf's _A Room of One's Own_ was published in 1929. _A Woman's Hardy Garden_ , by Helena Rutherfurd Ely, was published in 1903. I have no idea if any of these books were available in Australia at the time, but let's assume Sylvia has really good connections in the publishing world ;-)


	11. November 1930 to January 1931

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie begins again.

Chapter 11

_When I rummage in my own mind I find no noble sentiments about being companions and equals and influencing the world to higher ends. I find myself saying briefly and prosaically that it is much more important to be oneself than anything else._

Virginia Woolf, _A Room of One’s Own_

 

Harold disapproved, of course.

“I don’t see why you should leave when you have a perfectly comfortable home here." He sat with his wife on the sofa, facing Rosie across the parlour. "Iris depends on you.  And we’ve always tried to make you feel welcome.”

“It’s not about feeling unwelcome,” Rosie sighed. “The house is rather more crowded now that the baby’s here, and what happens when she’s too big to share your room?”

“But little Violet adores you!” Iris pleaded. Violet burbled cheerfully, munching on her fingers and staring curiously at Rosie. Iris held the baby securely as Violet swayed and kicked her feet; her mother put a hand out to stop them flailing. “Naughty! Nice girls don’t kick, darling,” she cooed.

“It’s only across town, Iris.” Rosie said patiently. “It’s not as if I’m leaving Melbourne. I’ll visit every week.”

“And this Miss Lee,” Harold said with a doubtful frown, “She’s simply... _giving_ you this flat to live in? I don’t think it’s necessary for you to accept charity, Rosie, not when your family are here to support you.”

“It’s not charity, Harold. I’ll be working for Miss Lee, doing the book keeping, and other assistance as needed.”

“But you haven’t any experience.”

“I have ten years experience as treasurer for the Melbourne Women’s Association.” Rosie laid out her reasoning for the second time. It was a plan she had developed for weeks before broaching it to Sylvia, who had agreed with it enthusiastically.

“Unpaid experience, yes,” she admitted, “but the MWA manages a budget of thousands, with subcommittees responsible for their different expenses.  Miss Lee needs the services I can provide, but in the current economy she can’t afford the fees for a certified accountant.  Besides, Prudence Stanley has agreed to give me her personal recommendation.”

Harold raised his eyebrows at this. Mrs. Stanley’s word was incontrovertible.

“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Rosie continued. “Sylvia gets the assistance she needs at a rate she can afford, I get experience and an income.” She had further plans to pursue certification. Harold would have to co-sign on any tuition loan, of course, but Rosie would concentrate on that problem later. With Iris’ help, she was confident she could persuade him. The first step was to get a job.

“I still don’t see why you need to move out,” Iris said. “Can’t you simply take the tram?”

“The flat above the shop will just sit empty otherwise; and you can turn my room back into a nursery for Violet. It just makes sense for me to live there, Iris.”

“Well, you must do what you think is best, of course,” said Harold, in a tone that implied her idea of what was best was rarely accurate. Iris looked pained. Violet shrieked happily.

Rosie pressed her lips together and prayed for patience. _At least the baby agrees with me._

“I appreciate how much support you’ve both given me over the years,” she said. “I truly do. I can never repay you. But it’s time I moved on with my life.”

***

It was several weeks later when Rosie opened the door of her new flat to greet her guests.

“Phryne, Jack, I’m so glad you could come.” She gestured them into the room. “How charming!” Phryne exclaimed, turning to admire the parlour. “It reminds me of a place I had in Paris.”

It was a cozy space, comfortable and well maintained by the previous occupants. There was no garden, of course—only a brick lane out the back—and the tiny WC meant she’d be bathing in the kitchen. Her mother would have been horrified; Rosie would have been horrified, not so long ago. Iris had smiled worriedly and commented on the lack of green space. But Rosie loved it. It was place to start again, and it was hers. She was slightly intoxicated with the thrill of living alone, without reference to anyone else’s needs or conditions. She could sleep in till noon, if she wanted, and there was no one to comment. She could spent all day in her dressing gown, with no neighbours to gossip about it. She could invite guests round without having to consult anyone’s schedule but her own. She had already filled the window boxes with flowers and kitchen herbs; a course catalogue from the local university sat under a stack of new books from the shop.

“It’s a lovely space, Rosie,” Jack said, kissing her on the cheek. He held a parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm.

“We brought a little something as a housewarming gift,” Phryne added, holding up a bottle of ludicrously expensive champagne.  

Rosie laughed. “I’m still settling in, I’m afraid we’ll have to make do with tea cups!” She went into the kitchen and searched the cupboard for cups, while Jack worked the champagne cork in the parlour. He proposed a toast as Rosie used a tea towel to wipe up the foam that spilled over the sides of the cups. Sitting on her sofa, they drank to fresh starts.

“What’s this, then?” Rosie asked, putting her cup down and leaning towards the package.

“It’s for you,” Jack said, handing it to her.

Rosie unwrapped the layer of brown paper and newsprint carefully. Underneath was a handcolored woodcut print of a vase of flowers, full blooms and ferns bursting out of the top in a vibrant display. It was signed “MP” at the bottom.

“A Margaret Preston?” Rosie gasped. “Oh, Phryne, you shouldn’t have...”

“Nonsense. Every home deserves good art.” Phryne smiled warmly.

Rosie reached out and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

She gathered up the torn paper, only to be stopped short by a photograph. “I see you’ve made the papers again, Jack!” she teased. Jack rolled his eyes, and the outcome of Phryne’s latest case was thoroughly dissected (missing jewels, and a philandering husband found with a knife in his back. Turned out the butler really had done it). They moved on to Rosie’s plans for certification; although the Burnley School of Horticulture offered degrees in landscape architecture, which was also tempting. Phryne, of course, urged beauty over numbers, but Rosie hadn’t made up her mind yet. Jack sat and smiled quietly at their lively conversation.

The afternoon passed quickly. Rosie smiled to herself as she entertained her ex-husband and his new lover, who had nearly been killed by Rosie’s former fiancé (before he was shot by the said ex-husband). Life, she decided, was much more interesting when it didn’t go according to plan.

Eventually Rosie saw her guests out, with dinner invitations and promises of repeat visits. She closed the door, took the print off the coffee table and placed it on the mantle. She stood back, admiring it.

It looked right at home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Margaret Preston print that Phryne gives Rosie is "Everlasting Flowers"; you can see it here: http://www.artgallery.nsw.gov.au/collection/works/DA37.1964/
> 
> The Burnley School of Horticulture began accepting female students in 1916.
> 
> Thanks for your patience and sticking with this story, everyone! Every comment and kudos has meant a lot to me, and helped me keep going when I got stuck! The support of my fellow fic writers was invaluable--everyone who encouraged, beta'd, brainstormed, and generally cheered me on: you know who you are, and I could not have finished this without your help. Thank you.


End file.
